Page 54 of Forgot to Tell You Something

Joy of joys.

“Owen, there you are! Always hiding in Lu’s office, aren’t you?” She gives his arm a playful punch. “Are we still on for drinks tonight?”

Game. Set. Match.

I’m done.

I gather my paperwork and storm to the elevator, pushing the button and trying to maintain some semblance of calm.

“I can explain,” Owen states, his eyes apologetic, his expression rueful.

“It’s not my business. But please, stop acting like you want us back when it’s blatantly apparent that she’s more than a work colleague.”

“Tally—” Owen begins, but the doors slide open. Thank the Gods, there’s only room for one of us.

Time for me to go.

* * *

Ineed to put on my game face. Anything happening between Owen and me must remain at the door.

The woman inside is tiny. According to the medical report, her name is Marla. She’s twenty-six, one hundred pounds soaking wet, and covered in all manner of lacerations and contusions.

I hate that I know how she feels.

Her story is like so many other women, but equally heart-wrenching.

He was a nice guy in the beginning.

Then things changed.

Maybe it’s her fault. If she had dinner ready when he got home, he wouldn’t have started drinking.

It’s all bullshit. She’s a victim, even if her abuser won’t let her admit that fact. This case differs slightly from so many others that roll through the emergency department. Namely, because Marla is ready to leave Earl, the monster who gifted her with this colorful collage of bruises.

She’s afraid for her son because Earl thinks he’s weak and needs toughening up. Marla knows his discipline all too well—she’s felt it countless times.

As the Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner, I have a process. Once my examination is complete, and the paperwork filed, we can address the elephant in the room. Where can we discharge Marla that is safe for her and her son?

That’s where Beth comes in. She’s one of my best friends and the director at the local women’s shelter. She’s also the only one who knows the full story behind my scars because she bears scars of her own.

Beth works as a victim advocate, and she’s bar none at giving the extra nudge necessary for an abused woman to seek safety. Thankfully, Marla reached that conclusion on her own. Now, with Beth’s help, they will move into the shelter and away from Earl.

“Code gray, emergency. Code gray, emergency.”

We reserve the term code gray for a violent altercation. My ears perk up as the voice sounds over the intercom, and I intrinsically know that Earl has arrived at the hospital.

“Stay in here,” I warn Marla, leaving her in the exam room with Beth. I turn into the hall and come face to face with a crazed man, swinging his arms wildly.

Lovely. He’s a live wire.

“Sir, you need to calm down.” A nurse tries unsuccessfully to deescalate the situation.

“I need to speak to my wife.” Then his gaze swings to me.

I haven’t uttered a word, but he knows I hold the information he’s seeking.

“You,” he sneers. “You know where my wife is, don’t you? I want to talk to her.”

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